Insomnia
by SarahBlackwood
Summary: Dr. Nicholas Rush before the events of "Hope" in three chapters. Insomnia. Like a vast wasteland stretching before him, with no end and no beginning. He had begun to long for sleep the way one might crave the touch of a lover. Sometimes he would nod off briefly and dream of sleeping, like a parched man in the desert hallucinating of water.
1. Chapter 1

In the course of my Robert Carlyle collected works marathon I stumbled over Stargate Universe and became, for lack of a better word, obsessed with Dr. Nicholas Rush. Thank you so much to JaneScarlett who has never even seen Stargate and still did the beta work on this and listened to me go on and on. You're an absolute star! Read her Doctor Who fics!

This is also for Lilgreenmomo who loves Stargate, even if she found Universe a tad dark.

None of this belongs to me. I am just borrowing Rush. I don't own Stargate or Robert Carlyle...

Insomnia

_"There is a close link between insomnia and despair. The loss of hope comes with the loss of sleep. The difference between paradise and hell: you can always sleep in paradise, never in hell."_

_-E.M. Cioran, On the Heights of Despair_

Chapter 1.

_(I don't sleep. I hate those little slices of death –Walter Reisch)_

Rush jolted awake abruptly and checked the clock. He'd been asleep for two minutes. Barely two minutes; and he felt the exhaustion heavy in his limbs, a dull ache that never seemed to leave him these days. He had slept only a handful of hours since returning from the rocky planet where he had left Simeon's corpse, which was even less than he usually did since arriving aboard the Destiny.

In his dreams he saw Simeon again: torn and bloody, lying on the ground, his eyes pleading for mercy; and Rush felt the weight of the gun in his hands, his finger tight on the trigger. All logic told him that revenge would bring no relief; revenge would not bring Amanda Perry back. She was gone, like Gloria before her; and once again Rush had been powerless to stop it. For all his genius, all he could do was stand by impotently while she was snatched away from him.

But this he had power over, this he could do. He could take his revenge, could snuff out Simeon's little life. He could do murder.

_Don't pull the trigger. You don't have to do this._ He could barely hear his conscience over the pounding of rage in his head. The pounding, like the beat of drums, grew louder and louder until nothing was left but that glorious cacophony. Then, without further ado, he'd unloaded the precious bullets into Simeon's skull… and now, awake, with every nerve twitching, he could still hear the ring of the shots in his ears.

Was it any wonder he couldn't sleep? When it wasn't Simeon keeping him awake, it was Mandy. In some dreams he lay stretched out on his couch back on Earth while she sat beside him, small pale hands folded in her lap where her nurse had placed them, large blue eyes shining with admiration.

Dreams of Mandy often preceded dreams of Gloria and vice versa. When it wasn't Mandy by his bedside, it was Gloria lying asleep in his bed, her breath regular, the faint huff of her exhale tickling his neck. Or sometimes her breasts were pressed against his back, her hand on his cock as her legs entwined with his own, her arms around him and her lips against his ear. _Nick, I want you to take me fast and hard._ He'd wake up confused, aroused and short of breath, cursing the weakness of the human body, trembling with unspent desire and disappointment.

Sometimes he didn't dream of anyone at all and he was alone with the numbers. Vast whiteboards so full so blue felt tipped numbers, they could barely be called_ white_boards anymore. Pages upon pages of scribbles: the endless proofs he dreamt he'd solved. In trying to unlock the secret of the Ninth Chevron on Icarus, he often dreamt he'd solved the equations only to wake and discover his notes were incomplete. The figures he had seen while asleep were shadowy, impossible, and elusive; they had no basis in reality. Only the feeling of triumph had seemed so real that as the dreams melted away he'd still felt the joy singing in his veins. That traitorous joy that was heady, intoxicating as alcohol, as sweet as a kiss.

It was becoming increasingly impossible for Rush to tell reality from nightmare. Awake, he conversed with both Franklin and Gloria though neither of them existed in corporeal form. He had brought Destiny back from the brink of destruction too many times to count. He'd seen proof of his own demise again and again. All this should have made him uncomfortable. Who could see what he had seen and not go mad? The human mind could only take so much.

But let's face it, Rush told himself as he lay in bed, a genius' grip on reality is precarious at best. No, of everything, what made him uncomfortable was the fact that exhaustion made him sloppy. Sloppiness could mean the difference between life and death on Destiny. He couldn't afford mistakes. The others might, but not he; not Dr. Nicholas Rush. And the more he thought of failure, of falling asleep at a crucial moment, the less he could sleep.

Insomnia. Like a vast wasteland stretching before him, with no end and no beginning. He had begun to long for sleep the way one might crave the touch of a lover. Sometimes he would nod off briefly and dream of sleeping, like a parched man in the desert hallucinating of water. Or when he was awake, he would fantasise about it. He'd imagine sleeping for days, waking up revived and clear headed. Every breath was sharp and refreshing, every step sure and full of energy. He craved sleep the way he used to crave nicotine. Only he couldn't give up the former as he had given up cigarettes.

Occasionally he would crash and sleep fifteen hours straight, like a man in a coma. He would wake up to a head full of cotton wool and his entire body buzzing with needles and pins. Or he'd find Lieutenant Johansen leaning over him, checking his pulse. He'd pull away, embarrassed, irritated at the weakness of his own body and spit something abrasive at her. Johansen had gotten good at deflecting these venomous remarks. She would calmly tell him how vital it was to get enough sleep and nourishment. She would tell him that this had to stop, that he was in denial if he thought he could continue to work like this indefinitely. She would lecture him and he would promise to get more rest. And then he would carry on as he always had.

In truth he hadn't slept well in years, since long before he killed Simeon, before setting foot aboard the Destiny, even before Icarus. Perhaps since the time Gloria first fell ill; when he would lie in bed beside her listening to her breath and dreading the moment when it would stop, afraid to drift off for fear he would wake to find her still, cold body beside his. He'd pulled away from her because of that fear, abandoned her emotionally long before she actually died.

And when she was dead and he was confronted with the cold, hard reality of his grief; he chose to supress it. He swallowed it down like a bitter draught; he said he'd been expecting it and that she was better off, because at least she was no longer in pain. He told them everyone the work was what was keeping him going, the soundest way to get through grief was to keep busy; and everyone seemed to accept that…or at least he avoided anyone who didn't agree with his survival tactic.

But in actual fact there was no way for Rush to tell if he was still grieving. For years all he had known was work and it had left little space for him to contemplate his emotions. He had allowed the work to stifle them until he could barely interpret them, so that he hadn't even recognised his feelings for Mandy when she came along and attempted to pull him out of his downward spiral with her kind words and soft voice and quick mind. He hadn't realised the extent of his emotions for her until it was too late.

Because of the grief he immersed himself in his work - because of the work he couldn't sleep - and when he couldn't sleep, he worked to escape his own terrifying thoughts. And on and on it went: a vicious circle.

But if he looked back even further he realised he had always been a light sleeper, ever since he was a boy in Glasgow, waiting up for his father to come home from work. Wee Nick had believed, absurdly, that if he fell asleep before his Dad returned, his father might never come home at all; and consequently he' had slept in fits and starts, always imagining he'd heard the sound of his Dad's key in the door, the creak of his boots on the stair. Sometimes he'd sit up with his Mum till her head drooped to her chest, and her breath came out in snuffles.

"If you can't sleep, Nicholas," Mum would tell him when he explained to her that he just wasn't sleepy; "then just try to relax instead or have a cup of warm milk."

Neither solution was an option these days. There was no warm milk aboard Destiny; though he might ask Lieutenant Johansen for a sleeping pill or an herbal drink concocted from plants gleaned off one of those planets along the way. He might listen to music to relax, though music invariably made him think of Gloria. He might lie very still and clear his mind, but his mind was too busy to ever be quiet for long.

Chloe swore she slept better since she started doing yoga. (She had also suffered from blackout episodes while infected with the alien pathogen, so perhaps yoga had nothing to do with it.) Mr Brody swore the moonshine worked wonders. (Though considering how often the man walked in in the morning suffering from a hangover, Rush found Brody's solution unacceptable). And Parks had her own methods according to rumour… but Rush very much doubted they had anything to do with reading.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

_(The last refuge of the insomniac is a sense of superiority to the sleeping world. -Leonard Cohen)_

Ten and a half minutes, according to his watch, that's how long he'd been asleep for. He hadn't even felt himself drifting off before his every muscle tightened simultaneously, jerking him into wakefulness. He wondered if his body was so unused to sleeping that every time he fell into that state it woke him up, rejecting the unfamiliar situation. In times of stress it was always worse. A few months before Gloria died he had moved to the couch. She knew he often had trouble sleeping and that the pain made it impossible for her to lie quietly for longer than an hour, thus waking him up every time she turned. Still, she had reacted badly. Tears flooded her eyes and her voice had become impossibly high and thin as she assured him she understood. Rush had snapped at her, immediately defensive. He had too much riding on this job. This was the opportunity of a lifetime. Everything he'd ever dreamed of. When he was working two jobs trying to get into Oxford, who would have thought he'd end up here? To his surprise she'd been gentle, squeezing his arm and smoothing his hair but Rush had pulled away when she tried to kiss him, holding her out at arms-length and patting her shoulder reassuringly. Out of the corner of his eye he'd seen her face crumple in anguish as he hurried out of the room.

The memories made his tongue feel like lead in his mouth. How could he have spoken to Gloria like that? Why had she let him? He liked to remember that she had been full of grace. That she'd been calm and gentle and dedicated. That she had practised daily, fiercely, sometimes until she'd wept with exhaustion. They'd had that in common. She'd had a certain measure of talent -that went without saying- but she'd owed her success to her determination and discipline.

Of course he idealised Gloria in his head. She hadn't been perfect. She had liked a good argument and had often taken him by the shoulders and pleaded with him fiercely. Once, in a fit of frustration, she'd thrown her bow at him, showing uncharacteristic disregard for the value of her instrument. She'd been practising for hours, the Bruch violin concerto, the same passage over and over till Rush had felt his head would explode. Finally he'd taken off his glasses and set aside his work.

"Why don't you rest for today my darling," he'd said, offering her a glass of water, hoping she couldn't hear the irritation in his voice just below the surface.

The bow had broken in two before it even hit the wall behind him.

"Gloria! For fuck's sake! You almost took my head off!"

"Maybe you ought to mind your own fucking business… darling!"

She had reached him in a second, her hands at the buttons of his shirt, tearing it off. She had him on his back before he even had time to react and stripped off his trousers with the speed born of years of practice. When she had pulled up her skirt and revealed that she wasn't wearing any knickers, all sense had deserted him. It had been difficult to move for days after that: rug burn coupled with a purple bruise on the ribs where Gloria's knee had caught him in her moment of passion.

You could hear that passion when she played, a feverish longing that seemed to carry her away, her instrument expressing in music what she often could not relay in words. But Rush couldn't play an instrument, he only had numbers. He'd envied the fact that any idiot could hear how well his wife played, while his work was not for the uninitiated. And in later years, under Stargate Command, it had been top secret. This meant that he very well might be making discoveries that would change the world beyond recognition but no one, save a select few, would ever know it. In the last months, even Gloria had known next to nothing about his classified work.

Gloria had been his strength, his moral compass; and when she was dead he realised how little everything else was worth. He'd always worked because that was who he was, that was the only way he knew to change things. Hard work and determination would be rewarded in the end.

But how did that explain Eli Wallace? That unschooled, undisciplined, lazy child; who had swooped in to claim his prize? How did that explain Gloria, herself? It hadn't been love at first sight. He'd worked hard to convince her of his love, he'd begged, lied, cheated; he'd drawn the line only at murder to be with her.

Gloria hadn't even liked him at first. She'd found him full of himself. "Full of that unfounded cockiness only short men have," she'd told the mutual friend who had introduced them. (In return, he'd called her a stuck- up condescending bitch; and had assumed their friend had relayed the message. In actual fact, he'd been drawn to her because of her beauty, her posh accent and the fact that she seemed so very out of his league. Her words had struck him to the core; so he'd lashed out as he was wont to.)

Still, he'd gone out and bought her CD; and it was her music that changed his mind in the end. It was upon hearing her play, that Rush decided he must be in love with her. It wasn't the playing really; it was the expressiveness, it was her shining through, the woman he imagined he could spy between the bars of music. That had been enough.

Nicholas Rush was a scientist through and through. He liked to work things through systematically; he could run the same equations over and over for weeks and never allow his attention to falter. Unlike many in his field though, he had a reckless streak that he struggled to keep hidden. Easy enough to blame it on his upbringing. Growing up poor in Glasgow, a small weedy boy who mostly kept to himself, he'd had to learn to think on his feet, and how to use his fists and scathing tongue. Occasionally, he learned, it was cleverer to trust one's instincts rather than overthink the situation. The most important events in his life would never have come to pass if not for a spontaneous burst of emotion on his part: proposing to Gloria, taking a job in the US, dialling the Ninth Chevron, killing Simeon.

Gloria had not forgotten their initial meeting; it took more than a bunch of daisies and an opera ticket to convince her. Rush had to chase her for the better part of a year before she had finally agreed to go out with him. And when she did it was with extreme hesitance. When she had finally told him she loved him, part of him couldn't believe it. He'd wanted this for so long it had hardly seemed real when his dream came into fruition. Rush had stroked her hair, dark like spun gold , and murmured into the space where her neck and shoulder met, that he loved her, that he would never leave her and always be there for her. Till death do us part? He hadn't even waited till she died; he had left her when she needed him most.

He felt the tears slide down his cheeks, wetting the collar of his t- shirt; and he clicked his tongue in disgust. Now you cry, you pathetic old bastard. He lay still for longer than he would have liked with tears streaming down his face. He rarely let go and cried like this. The last time had been in front of Scott and Greer on that dusty planet before killing Simeon, breathless sobs of frustration that wracked his entire body.

Mandy was dead. This had been the only clear thought in his head, his heart beating a million kilometres a minute, his mouth dry as the dust at his feet. Every particle of his body had been screaming for vengeance, screaming for him to shoot Simeon dead. So he had.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you to everyone who reviewed! Reviews are great motivation. Thanks to those who reblogged on Tumblr! Here is the final installment. I hope you like it!

Thanks to JaneScarlett for going over this and being patient! I love you! Read her amazing Doctor Who fics!

Chapter 3:

_(Freedom is the moment between sleep and waking before selfhood and the world return. – Mason Cooley)_

She wore a blue floral dress that made him think of the pattern of a tea service as she stood before him, pale and perfect, her feet bare. What a strange little detail to notice, her bare feet. She was so fine-boned and small that she needed to look up to see into his eyes, and Nicholas Rush could never be called a tall man.

"I thought you'd never notice me," Mandy said, blushing prettily. He ran a thumb along her smooth cheek and she kissed it as he passed it over her lips.

"I always noticed you. How could I not?" Rush asked.

He kissed her full on the lips before she could answer, her breath escaping against his mouth in shock; then her lips parted beneath his. The feeling of her tongue touching his filled him with a desire so acute he had to hold on to her to steady himself; and she kissed him with a fierceness she'd previously only exhibited in her work before; they broke apart: laughing, panting. She tasted like mint tea and honey, a favourite of hers.

Mandy smiled at him; she had always been a sweet but somewhat mousy girl… but when she smiled at him like that she was breath-taking. Rush took her by the chin and kissed her again, deeper and more deliberate than before. He buried his nose in her soft brown hair and kissed her neck and her shoulders, inhaling the faint of fresh strawberries and chamomile shampoo and fabric softener. Rush bunched the soft jersey of her dress in his hands pulling it up around her slender hips before letting it fall again, the Mandy he knew was innocent, he had to slow down; he pulled away from her, studying her face: eyes bright and glassy, mouth red and swollen from kissing.

"Why'd you stop?" she asked her voice thick with desire. She reached out, and brushed the front of his jeans with one eager hand and he felt his cock stiffen in reaction as she pulled back, her eyes never leaving his as she lowered the zipper and stroked him through his boxers. Rush gasped in shock and pleasure. She fell to her knees before him and kissed his hipbones, her tongue darting out to lick his navel, sending shudders of pleasure through him.

All at once Rush knew that this wasn't real, it couldn't be real. The real Mandy had died untouched. She had never stroked him or any man, never pulled down his jeans and knelt before him to kiss his cock through the thin cotton of his underwear before pulling them down as well. The real Mandy had never whispered to him "You're beautiful, Nick."

Though Rush knew it was a dream but he couldn't stop himself, he kissed her again, more viciously this time as if he could make the dream real that way. As if he could somehow stop himself from waking if he just clung to her harder; his vigour seeming to enflame her; as she kissed him so fiercely her teeth scraped against his. It wasn't the real Mandy standing before him and tugging her dress over her head, revealing small white breasts and nipples that were darker than he could have imagined them. Her hips were slender as a boy's; those legs he had never seen in real life were pale and perfectly shaped; like the limbs of a porcelain doll. Mandy, the real Mandy had never stepped out of her panties so he could see her completely naked. She'd had never taken his hands to place them on her body so he could feel her trembling.

"Are you afraid?" he asked her, she shook her head, and placing one of his hands between her legs so that he could feel that she was slick with desire.

"I've wanted this so long Nick; for years I've dreamed of this," she said, her whole body shaking but her voice steady and sure.

Rush lifted her bird-like form into his arms and carried her to the bed, carefully lowering her down and kissing her lips, her forehead, her collar bone; he left a trail of kisses to her breast and then took one nipple into his mouth. She giggled, tickled by his beard and then arched her back, gasping when his teeth grazed the delicate bud. Bent over her, he paused before straddling her as she pulled off his t- shirt, running her hands up and down his chest. His nipples tingled as her fingers flew over them, light as a feather; and then she pulled him down on top of her, gripping him tightly, her hands tangled in his hair. Rush slipped his hand between her legs and rubbed a finger against her clit until her breath hissed out against his shoulder. "Oh," she sighed. "Oh, oh, oh."

Had there ever been a sound sweeter than Mandy's moans? He pushed a finger into her gently and felt her convulse against him, her breath hot against his shoulder, her teeth digging in to the skin. The pain was exquisite, immediate and so real. _Oh God_, Rush thought desperately_, if only- if only this were real._ He held her wrists in place above her head and froze there. In real life he couldn't have waited that long. But here, in the dream Rush had the presence of mind to pause and gaze questioningly into her eyes. His erection was pressing against her and she squirmed against it; he could feel the welcoming heat of her, the wetness… felt her thighs part and she angled her hips so that the tip of his cock was nearly inside her.

"It's ok," Mandy murmured. So he pushed into her; the resistance of her flesh was so sweet he knew he wouldn't last long. She gasped once and then wrapped her legs around him, drawing him deeper inside her.

"I love you, Nicholas," she breathed.

Rush awoke, disoriented and flushed. He'd slept longer than the previous times; he knew it without even raising his arm to view his watch. A full twenty five minutes, maybe more.

With a pang, he remembered the truth: Mandy hadn't been here with him and now she never would be, not in any form. She was dead; he'd lured her to her death, he had killed her. The guilt swelled up in him like a sickening wave and he needed to vomit. Rush fell to the floor on his hands and knees and heaved violently, but there was nothing in his stomach to vomit come up, only bile and acids rising up his oesophagus; and he choked them down in desperation. Tears stung his eyes. _Not fucking again, pull yourself together man._ He cleared his throat and wiped the spit from his lips with his sleeve, tried to force himself to take slow, deep breaths; but every time he managed to control his breathing and calm himself, reality would hit him with the force of a tidal wave.

They were all dead: Mandy and Gloria and Simeon. Mandy was killed because of his arrogance and pride and Simeon by Rush's own hand, because he couldn't keep his emotions in check; no matter the cost. And Gloria, because he hadn't had the strength to keep fighting when she no longer would.

There was no point in going back to bed now. He stood hurriedly, ignoring the jolt of cold as his bare feet touched the floor. No point wasting precious time staring at the ceiling when he could be working towards fulfilling Destiny's mission. The back of his long sleeved t- shirt was soaked in sweat, cooling rapidly; but he had nothing to change into so he pulled on the brown short sleeved t- shirt over it, and the brown vest over that. The same damn clothes he had been wearing for the most part since leaving Icarus. For a second he wished he could be back on Earth again, he wished he could take a long hot shower, pull on a change of fresh clothes and tuck into a fine meal with a pint of good dark ale. He wished he could sleep in his own fucking bed. But in truth it had been a very long time since he had a home to go to, a place away from a Stargate, away from his work. Those creature comforts meant nothing, nothing in comparison to what completing Destiny's mission could mean. It could mean finding out the very reason for the existence of the universe. It could mean finally learning the reason for life, for death, what lay beyond; if anything. It could mean discovering the secret code to break the limitations of space and time; because as it was, Destiny seemed to bend those as she saw fit.

But most of all, completing Destiny's mission could mean that he might finally, finally get some sleep.

As Rush hurried down the corridors, already thinking of all the things that needed to be taken care of, he realised his pulse had slowed substantially, his stomach had stopped roiling. It occurred to him that he was already feeling much better. With every step he took away from his chamber he was feeling more and more refreshed. His mind was sharper, answers to problems that had seemed impossible yesterday, suddenly presented themselves. He considered the dreams he'd had, the emotions that had surfaced. Could it have been Destiny? Could the ship have entered his mind, manipulated him as it had Colonel Young? Was Destiny keeping him awake? Filling his dreams with unpleasant or torturous images so that he would rather stay awake? Was_ she_ the root of his insomnia? Was she jealous of Mandy and Gloria and even Simeon?

Rush shook the thought away. His mind was stronger than Young's. These had been ordinary dreams, ordinary thoughts. It was silly to think Destiny might resent any time he spent away from direct contact with her. She was a ship, not a woman; incapable of covetous behaviour.

Wasn't she?


End file.
